in the cold puddles
concentric rings play tag
with the sky flannelled in
shades of grey, soft from
the wind and granite from
the anger of shouted thunder
arguments, the tree's shake
losing what little cover
they have left and stand
stark naked and dripping
on the muddy floor.
the river flows high and
unchecked vomiting brown
bile and wreckage out into
the sea, only for it to become
a puzzle of detrius on the beaches edge
leaving junkheaps and carcasses for
treasure hunters to find....
and still the puddles play
tag with the cold and weeping sky